‘I think he did.’
‘Good luck to him. I wish I could be there when he does.’
So do I, I thought.
5
Two glasses of beer on an empty stomach was an effective appetiser. I drove to the nearest motel, booked in and found a restaurant that served steak and salad and house wine for a reasonable price. It’d go on Wes Scott’s bill but I never liked to pad the expenses for a friend. The food was good and the red must have been out of one of the better casks because it slid down nicely. The rain had stopped and the sky was clear. The air was cold, moved about by a slight breeze. After a day of driving and sitting I felt the need for exercise. I zipped up the leather jacket and walked around the town for an hour, deliberately keeping my mind off the case.
Parramatta has a real and honest feel to it, like a place that belongs where it is for real historical and geographical reasons, and does a job it’s supposed to do. Like a lot of Australians, I feel a bit anxious when I’m a long way from the water, but Parramatta didn’t set up too much of that, maybe because the river isn’t far away and it leads to the harbour. Wednesday was evidently a quiet night in the centre. There were pubs doing reasonable business and the usual ebb and flow out of the takeaway joints, but no energy. That suited me. I was tired and my warm room with the double bed and an instant coffee with a dash of Johnny Walker red from the minibar was beckoning.
Back at the motel, I had a shower, wrapped the towel around me and did some stretching and a few push- ups. Nothing strenuous. I debated whether to have the laced coffee before, after or during making a report to Wesley. I decided on after and phoned him.
‘Cliff, I was hoping you’d call.’
‘Any news your end?’
‘No. Nothing. What’ve you found out?’
They’re often like that; the anxiety makes them unreasonable so that they think one day on the job should bring concrete results. It never does. I told Wesley about meeting Noel Kidman and the deal I’d made with him.
‘That’s fine. I’ll send him a cheque. What else?’
‘Nothing much, Wes. But there was a girl Clinton was involved with.’ I described Angela Cousins. There was a silence so long I had to ask if he was still there.
‘Yeah, I’m here. An Aboriginal girl? Why didn’t he talk about her, or bring her home?’
‘I think you know the answer to that.’
‘God, I didn’t think it was that serious.’
‘Easy, Wes. I don’t know the finer details of your family set-up.’
He managed a short laugh. ‘You could hardly accuse Mandy of being prejudiced against blacks. No, I can’t think of anything apart from the blue with Pauline. I’m beginning to wonder if I knew the boy at all.’
Joe Cousins was probably having the same thoughts, but at least the Scotts didn’t have all their eggs in the one basket. I told Wesley what had happened to Angela and about Clinton’s reaction. I didn’t mention the drinking or the boot-shredding.
‘Steroids? My god, Clinton really was hot on that subject. I told him I’d never taken them back in my body- building days. I had a hard time convincing him. He once said he was ashamed to be of the same race as Ben Johnson. I’m not surprised he went wild- The girl couldn’t have done anything worse in his eyes.’
‘She couldn’t have done anything worse, period.’
‘Of course. That’s very sad. You say she’s going to die?’
‘Soon. It looks as if Clinton cut himself off from the girl’s family as well as his own. They seem to have got on very well before that.’
A silence again while he absorbed the information that his son had been close to people he had chosen to keep separate from his family. When he spoke there was hurt and mystification in his voice. ‘A few years back Clinton had a mate who got leukaemia. Clint was a tower of strength to that family-nothing he wouldn’t do. I don’t understand this. I don’t understand anything. Why he wouldn’t tell us about the girl. Why he’d cut off from her people. What d’you make of it?’
‘It’s too soon to say. I’m talking to Clinton’s basketball coach tomorrow. He might have some ideas. I should see Angela’s mother too, for the woman’s perspective. Can’t say I’m looking forward to that.’
‘Is there anything I can do, Cliff?’
‘No. How are Mandy and Pauline bearing up?’
‘It helped when I told them I’d hired you. I thought it would. We’re counting on you, man.’
Just what you want to hear when all you’ve got is a few unconnected threads and some worrying suspicions. I didn’t know anything about the emotional storms children can stir up or how adults cope with them. Maybe you need to be married with three kids to understand how life really is. If so, I’d missed the bus all along the line. I didn’t know anything about the trade in steroids, but if it was a big money business then an angry kid blundering in could come to serious harm. I didn’t admit any of this to Wesley. I told him I’d stay in touch. Then I made my drink and went to bed.
I carry shaving tackle, a toothbrush and a change of shirt in the car so I was able to scrub up reasonably well the next morning. I had orange juice and a packet of nuts from the minibar along with two cups of coffee for breakfast, paid my bill and headed back to the university. I passed the hospital on the way and thought about the young woman lying there with machines keeping her alive, technically. She evidently knew nothing about what had happened and was most likely already at peace. But she was leaving a lot of pain and distress behind her.
Leo Carey was in the middle of a coaching session with his players when I arrived. I sat at the side of the court and watched them going through the set plays, off-fence and de-fence as the language is, dribbling and practising all the other skills of the game. I used to play it at the Police Boys’ Club when the hoop seemed to be halfway to the roof. The giants in this squad slam-dunked and took rebounds in the stratosphere.
The coach moved restlessly up and down the sideline, shouting and punching the air with his fist. Occasional collisions seemed to inspire him to greater fury and I couldn’t tell whether he was glad his players were bumping the shit out of each other or deploring it. He was a tallish man in his forties, bald with the beginnings of a belly but with the old athlete’s lightness of step. He wore a tracksuit and sneakers and looked as if he spent his entire life dressed like that. A stray ball bounced towards him and he scooped it up and returned it like a rocket while still bellowing.
The session ended and Carey despatched the various players to further tortures in the gym and pool and on the running track. He’d noticed me watching and came over to me when he’d completed his tasks.
‘You a spotter?’ he barked.
I was puzzled. ‘What?’
‘Talent spotter. Looking over my boys.’
‘No, nothing like that.’ I produced my credentials. ‘I want to talk to you about Clinton Scott.’
The name seemed to take the aggression out of him. He slumped down on a seat in the row in front of me and stared at the court. ‘Lost three out of four since he went missing.’
‘He was good then?’
‘Bloody good and could’ve been better if he wasn’t so flaky and if he’d give that fuckin’ ping-pong football away. Surefire way to do your knees, that game.’
‘Flaky?’
Carey shrugged. ‘Not the most regular at training. Missed a game when it suited him. Kinnear told me to give him plenty of rope so I did. Too much, maybe. The other boys didn’t like it much.’
‘Have you got any idea where he might have gone?’
He swivelled round to look at me. For a moment it seemed he wanted to say something, then he shook his head. ‘No.’
